


breaking things

by mormegil



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Other, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormegil/pseuds/mormegil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Túrin drinks, and remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breaking things

He breaks. He has no work and no skill, truly; he merely breaks things. Others, mostly--the constancy of warfare here suits him, he can turn his rages to some use. Sometimes he _tries_ to destroy himself, throws himself into the thick of battles that do not need him, drinks too much and too often, says yes when he knows he should say no.   
Sometimes he cannot seem to do anything right. Sometimes at night old words run through his head, words of how he has broken his family and broken his lovers and broken everyone he has ever cared about--and he drinks, and stares at the walls, and thinks sharp thoughts of sword-blades and blood on black iron.  
They say he is beautiful, beautiful as only a tragedy can be beautiful. He supposes they are right, but the face in the mirror does not feel like his. To himself, he is still a gangly, awkward excuse for a boy, hair perpetually in his eyes, dark hollows under them, dark hollows everywhere, bruises he would go to awful lengths to hide from Thingol. The bruises have stayed, at least some of them. The effort to hide them, even the hope that anyone would mind them, have not. The marks on his skin are less obvious now, anyway; no one had dared touch him so openly since Saeros, _and he paid dearly enough for the privilege_ , the boy who has become the Black Sword will think bitterly (no, not bitterly--there is not enough emotion attached to the thought for that anymore) on occasion. No one will see or know.   
They say he has grown up well. He does not understand how they can say this. The kind of bright, successful youth they all want him to be would not break everything he touched.   
He tries to think of her as his sister. The alternative is too painful. The hair at least is right, surely, golden as wheat in the sunlight, though when he tries to picture Nienor her hair is always as wild as his. He has always wanted to believe a sister would have loved him, and so it is that when Finduilas offers him her hand he takes it, even knowing it will not be enough. It never seems to be enough.   
He wishes they were enough for each other. It would be kinder. She does not truly know his secret, surely--how would she? He wonders sometimes if any of them know. Perhaps they all think they were the only ones whose hearts he broke, the only ones to break him so.   
He loathes himself for the lie. He does not want to lie to her. He does not want to hurt her. She is the only thing he has left that he has not broken. He cannot bring himself to tell her.   
Túrin pours himself another glass of wine, and his nails tighten on his flesh. No one will interrupt so late. It's safe to _bleed_.  
He wonders if his mother felt so, an unwelcome outsider in an ally's land. He wonders if she felt so used. The thought stings. He cannot remember her face clearly. He had looked like her, he knows that much. She had not broken. He hates that he has.   
He knows his sword, his beloved's sword, really, cannot feel. It cannot take mercy on him. He knows, and yet he still wants to beg. Gurthang knows his horrors, knows them as he cannot seem to let anyone know them. He looks at the blade, and _wants_ , wants things he is too ashamed (afraid? No, the Black Sword does not fear death) to name.   
The people fear the sword more than they fear the man himself, this he knows. The exposed blade gleams softly now in the torchlight, black and almost glowing with iridescent sheen as its master strokes it.   
His hands are shaking, shaking too much for comfort, and as he raises the glass to his lips wine spills in burning drops upon the metal. It hisses slightly.   
He cannot do as he wishes, not tonight. He must break himself the slow way.

**Author's Note:**

> wow this is emo im sorry


End file.
